


Pieces We Hide

by Eternal_Garbage



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied Relationships, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, impled Rhack, rhysothy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 15:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18719968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eternal_Garbage/pseuds/Eternal_Garbage
Summary: Rhys thought he could handle Timothy's secretive nature. It took him three years to realize he could not. It took even longer for Lawrence to understand not all battles should be fought alone.





	Pieces We Hide

**Author's Note:**

> This is my gift fic for [HOLORHYS HAS FEELINGS](https://oh-rhys-youre-my-hero.tumblr.com/) as part of the art exchange on Hub of Heroism discord. I hope my promptee enjoys what I have done ^_^

They have known each other for a while now. A _long_ while, actually.

Timothy Lawrence had come into his service when Atlas was finally ready to be back on the corporate map and Rhys realized he needed someone to watch his back. Turned out Hyperion was hardly an exception when it came to attempted assassinations. He never figured out how Tim found his way to Atlas’ doorstep, it’s not like Rhys had been _advertising_ himself just yet but there he was: tall, mysterious and offering a magnitude of services. Lawrence’s terms were simple enough: food, shelter, decent amount of money to make a living on and privacy. He needed a lot of _that_.

As Atlas grew, so did their relationship. It took a couple of hits and Lawrence bleeding on a very expensive carpet for them to get closer. Close enough for Timothy to let Rhys touch him and tend to the wound. Close enough for Lawrence not to flinch away, too hurt and too out of options for anything else. He weakly instructed Rhys on what to do, fainting ungracefully at the end of it and leaving the stressed out and shaking CEO to dispose of the both rival hitman’s body _and_ the beloved carpet.

That was three years ago.

* * *

A strangled sound woke Rhys up and he turned around sleepily, feeling the matras dip underneath his partner’s weight.

“Tim?” he muttered, left hand creeping sheepishly along the silken sheets in search of the other man’s warmth.

“Go to sleep,”Timothy answered slowly, controlling his intonation as his body shifted once again, indicating he stood up. “It’s nothing.”

It had always been _nothing_ with Lawrence. His secretive nature was such an integrated part of their relationship that Rhys knew better than to pry. It gnawed on him though, seeing Timothy battling something within and refusing any council or comfort.

He caught up with Tim on the balcony where his boyfriend was leaning against the railing as his gaze slid along the skyscrapers that littered Promethea’s cityscape. Rhys wrapped himself tighter in his silken gown and frowned as he noticed Timothy’s fidgeting: the filter of the cigarette was ripped off, rolling in between Lawrence’s fingers as he inhaled raw tobacco, holding it in and finally letting it out through the nose. It was done slowly and with utmost concentration, yet another telltale sign of stress.

“I think we need to talk,” Rhys said sternly and the only acknowledgement he received was a side - eye from the pale green iris.

“We don’t _need_ to, Rhys,” Timothy exhaled the smoke he was cradling in his chest. “The ‘needs’ and the ‘wants’ stay at the office.”

Their relationship had many rules but the most important and strongly enforced one was dividing the work and the pleasure. There were no talks about conferences and security in their penthouse and, vise versa, it was all business down at Atlas HQ. Despite the fact that it was known the two were involved, they had never shown even a shred of familiarity in public. 

“Fine,” Rhys huffed out in annoyance and finally joined Tim by his side, arm sliding around the other man’s waist. “ _Can_ we talk, then?”

“Rhys, I - ,” Tim flicked the cigarette away, watching it disappear into the clouds beneath them and then he turned around, eyes anywhere but on his partner’s face.

“It has been three years,” Rhys crossed his arms. “Three years of night terrors,” he closed in on Lawrence. “Three years of hearing you cry in the bathroom after an episode and not being able to do anything about it. And it is all because of _this_ ,” his flesh finger flicked against the metal clasp of the synthetic mask Timothy had been wearing since the moment they have met. 

The prosthetic had weathered through many years of use and abuse and Rhys still remembered staring in the mismatched eyes of the burned and ripped monstrosity as Lawrence came in for the interview. A regular joe would miss the resemblance, Tim did great job at butchering the face but Rhys knew: old crushes, even when tainted, died hard. The thought of Jack, as fleeting as it was, echoed dully in his cybernetics. He had mostly worked his issues out and now he wished he could do the same for Timothy. _If_ the stubborn man let him. 

"This mask," Rhys' fingers ran along the sharp jawline, ghosting over the cheekbone and finally cupping the side of Lawrence's face. "Is vile. It still hurts you, even if it looks different now." 

Few months into their partnership Tim had used his savings to alter the prosthetic once again, cleaning up the skin and softening the features: the chin became narrower and gained a dimple, the lips fuller and the eyebrow curve lost its dramatic villain vibe. It was sort of Jack and at the same time it was not: a weird choice, Rhys noted to himself but Lawrence did not elaborate. He rarely did. 

"Is there something underneath? What did Jack do? If you show it to me then maybe -," The inquisitive fingers landed on the forehead clasp and Rhys felt shiver that raked along Timothy's frame as his arm shot upwards, locking around his wrist. 

"No," came out the labored rasp as the fingers squeezed involuntarily, making Rhys cringe from discomfort and let go. " _No_." 

Just as quick as the pressure on his wrist came it was gone and so was Tim, the front door slamming shut loudly behind his boyfriend's back. Rhys rubbed his temples and sighed, waking back briskly and pouring himself a glass of wine. He would wait for Lawrence to come back and then they would try talking again. 

* * *

Tim did not return. Not in the coming hours and not the next day. This was, by far, not the first time the argument resulted in one of them storming out. Moreover, the man was more than capable taking care of himself; he survived in much harsher environments than corporate bickering. The knowledge of that, however, did nothing to curb Rhys’ anxiety.

Timothy needed space. And so Rhys gave it to him, wiggling at the edge of his seat as he sat through the boring meeting with the board that discussed most menial and trivial things that they _technically_ did not even need his presence for.

Another twenty four hours had passed. Rhys knew that Lawrence was around doing his job, cameras showed him that much. But Timothy was very good at avoiding Rhys, popping on security feed here and there as Rhys almost manically switched between the cameras trying to hunt the man down.

Libby, his sweet wallflower of a PA was giving him a run down of tomorrow’s schedule and Rhys did not even notice her falling silent as he was busy boring his gaze in one of the screens. When the pause became too awkward he lifted his vacant gaze, eyes sliding over lean legs clad in black and the broad chest, finally stopping at the familiar face.

“Where is Libby?” Rhys asked dumbly, staring at his wayward lover.

“I dismissed her if it’s ok with you,” Lawrence answered quietly and Rhys stood up, Tim’s meek intonation catching him off guard. The confusion was momentous as Rhys scoffed and leaned on the massive table, eyes burning.

“Where _were_ you?!”

“Around. I just… I needed time.”

Not ‘need’ but ‘needed’.

The flames of anger dimmed in Rhys’ eyes and he pushed himself off the table, calling up the personal interface on his cybernetic arm that allowed him to control, among other things, the electronics in his office. The door clicked shut and the blinds turned in place the same moment the warm artificial daylight went on. 

There was rustling to be heard and Rhys lifted his gaze to see a hand, small piece of paper between fingers that were outstretched in his direction. With eyebrows raised in unspoken question Rhys accepted it, noticing a light tremble as their hands touched. Gingerly he uncurled the old frail piece of paper and turned it around in his hands: he was looking at a picture of a young man smiling shyly, big green eyes glimmering from behind large round glasses. His pale skin contrasted fairly with red wavy mop of hair and freckles that were littering his cheeks. A black ribbon at the lower corner of the portrait had his attention next, finger running along its pitch black weathered length.

“An obituary,” Timothy muttered, voice giving an uncharacteristic shake. “This was me before - Before Jack. And this,” Rhys heard the clasps click open softly but in the deafening silence of the room the sound seemed almost obnoxiously loud. “This is what I’ve become.”

Gloved finger clenched nervously in the empty sockets of the mask that Timothy had dropped to his knees. Rhys could see his partner wither under his inquisitive glare, shoulders slumping in desperate attempt to become smaller. Lawrence had finally lost whatever composure he had left and hastily stepped away towards the wall, hand in front of his face.

“No!” Rhys cried out and winced at the shrillness of own voice. “Please come back, it’s ok”

Timothy did not listen. In fact Tim probably did not even hear him as he suddenly curled up on himself and silently slid down the wall, shoulders shaking as he was trying to draw breath and failing. Rhys was upon him in seconds, kneeling besides Lawrence and locking the arms around him gently. He himself was no stranger to panic attacks: after the mess Jack had caused Rhys was left to pick up the pieces, his stifled cries echoing within the halls of the abandoned Atlas facility he made his home. 

Rhys had nobody back then but it did not have to be that way for Timothy. 

“I was young, starving… Made a stupid choice,” Lawrence was muttering through laboured breaths. “Should have let him to rot on Elpis. Pandora, the AI… It’s all on me, Rhys. _On me_.”

He knew the story, Timothy had shared it before exactly once, dryly and matter of fact - ly. He told about the Vault on Elpis and how he was the one to drag wounded and delirious Jack out. He told about the swift and subsequent attack on New Haven and the hunt for the new Vault… He told it all but the only fact that Tim had conveniently omitted back then was that he thought that all of it was his fault.

“You were twenty six, Tim,” Rhys whispered as his hands gently squeezed his lover’s shoulder. “You did what you thought was right. You couldn’t know.”

Slowly Lawrence raised his head from his chest and finally Rhys could see, _really_ see him for the first time since they have met.

Years of wearing the prosthetic had thinned and discoloured the skin from its natural olive hue to the pale white, edges sharp and clear even in the soft lights of the office. The face was Jack’s, or it would have been if not for the disfiguring sickly - purple scar that was etched into Lawrence’s features, breaking and reshaping everything around it, bone and soft tissue alike. Rhys lightly touched the tear - stained pale cheek underneath the damaged eye, it’s sclera the same colour as the scar.

“I - It needed to be the same as his,” Timothy said, voice void of anything but exhaustion. “Jack… He used eridium, branded me with it and the scar, it burned for _hours_ ,” the painful memory elicited yet another angry sob and Lawrence bit on his lip, drawing blood. 

“You couldn’t know,” Rhys repeated himself and gently pressed his lips to Tim’s fevered forehead, soaking in the heat and wishing he could take the pain away from his partner. He trailed the kisses down Timothy’s nose bridge, scarred skin rough against his own. “You don’t have to fight it alone.You understand that, right?”

The last words were but a whisper as Rhys rested his forehead against Tim’s. A soft whine left the other man’s throat and suddenly his mouth found Rhys’, lips needily engulfing his own. The sensation was absolutely alien, before that all he knew was the cool synthetic skin of the mask. Rhys pulled away, eyebrows knitted in concern: it was unlike Lawrence to be so… _straightforward_ and he wanted to make sure that the man realised what he was doing.

“Tim? Is this what you want right now?” He asked carefully, eyeing Timothy for a sign of rejection or discomfort. Rhys was many things but he never took advantage of emotional vulnerability. At least not since Jack had so kindly shown him how it was to be on the receiving end.

“Stay with me,” came a hoarse whisper from the shadows as fingers bunched up around his dress shirt, pulling Rhys in.

_Thank you._


End file.
